


Death From Above

by Smurphyse



Category: Justified
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, I’m gonna go a bit off canon, Slow Burn, Updating tags as I go, but hey I need more Tim Time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29449938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smurphyse/pseuds/Smurphyse
Summary: Tim has a bad day. His girlfriend dumps him, he punches an FBI Agent, and they’re getting a new girl in the office. He hooks up with a mysterious woman from a local joint, only to find out that she’s their new co-worker. As Helen O'Malley settles more in Harlan County, her past comes back knocking, and it will send the whole office into an epic shitstorm that they may not recover from.Set somewhere between Season 4 and the end of Season 5. I'm gonna stick to canon but also not, the main story is still there, I'm just inserting a self-indulgent character. A slow burn that is just an excuse to get a daydream out of my head and write gratuitous sex scenes for. Also, I love angsty sexual tension and a “slow burn one night stand to awkward coworkers to friends to soulmate” trope. Sue me I’m very specific and desperate for content of a show that ended half a decade ago.Ko-fi.com/smurphysehttps://www.wattpad.com/user/smurphyse
Relationships: Tim Gutterson/Original Character(s), Tim Gutterson/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	1. Cover

I love to write, but with my day job it is quite difficult to keep up! Please comment and bookmark to let me know you like this! And if you can, I'd be so grateful for your support on Ko-Fi!

Ko-fi.com/smurphyse


	2. Tim Gutterson and the terrible, awful, no good day (but hey, it ends in sex!)

Tim Gutterson usually had bad nights. Nights when he woke up yelling or sweating or leaping off the bed to get away from monsters made of memory. Some nights all three happened, and he’d wake up and drink a fifth of bourbon just to make it to sunrise in one piece. 

For once, Tim hadn’t had a bad night, so he’d gone for a longer run than usual, relishing the cool morning air of Kentucky in October. He pushed himself, slowly kicking up his pace and going through the breathing techniques he’d learned in the Army. 

After ten miles (he usually only did six), he’d come home, slowly making his way up the front steps of his house. He’d been gone less than an hour, but someone had found time to drop a box on his porch. 

Tim sighed as he bent down to pick it up. It was a box of his stuff from Abby’s house. He already knew what he’d find inside. It was what was always in breakup boxes- a few sets of shirts and boxers from when he slept over, a toothbrush and travel mouthwash, and a few of his books. Taped to the top was a cream colored envelope with his name scrawled across it in Abby’s flourish-y script. 

He set the box on his hip as he unlocked the front door, stepping through and tossing it onto the couch. He wasn’t going to bother reading the note right now. Instead, he made his way to the kitchen, tipping a bit of bourbon into a coffee mug before pouring himself some dark roast. Turning on his heel, he walked to the bathroom, flipping on the shower and setting the mug on the side of the vanity, kicking off his shoes and peeling off his sweaty clothes. 

He pulled the mug into the shower with him, nursing it gingerly in both hands and letting the water release some of the newly pent-up tension in his back. It was still steaming hot when he took his first sips, and he tried to focus his thoughts to the notes of vanilla from the bourbon. It never tasted as good with coffee as it did by itself, but the early morning reminder that he’d fucked up another personal relationship wasn’t something he had expected to find when he came home, nor was he prepared to think about it. 

He’d liked Abby, a lot. She was blonde and beautiful, working with the Child Protective Services as a counselor. She’d been wonderful to talk to, kind and gentle, but she wanted him to _talk_ about real things. She pushed him to talk about Afghanistan and his time in the service. He just couldn’t do it, and he really didn’t want to. She had been mostly understanding, backing off the moment he started getting defensive, which always left a sour feeling of guilt in his stomach. The last thing he ever wanted to do was scare her.

Abby’s last straw after five months of dating was a particularly bad nightmare Tim had while sleeping at her house. He’d woken in a cold sweat, chest heaving and eyes wide, clutching onto her wrist for dear life as she tried to bring him back to the present. It had clearly shaken her up, and he’d known it the second he came back to himself. So, finding a box of his things on his porch was something he’d expected last week. 

The night of the nightmare he had grabbed her wrist too tight, and by the way she’d been nursing it as he apologized profusely, it was clear it was going to bruise. He’d scared her, marked her, and the next morning Tim had avoided every mirror he passed, fearing that the face he would see would be from the last generation of Gutterson men. 

He’d rather talk to her and apologize again, as he had that night, but if she brought his stuff to him when she knew he’d be on a run, then she definitely didn’t want to see or speak to him. He understood and didn’t blame her, but seeing that damn envelope still stung in a way he didn’t like. 

He’d write her a letter later, after work when he’d had the time to process whatever she wrote in hers. For now, he needed to get ready for the day. He gulped down the rest of his mug and set it on the side of the tub, then turned the heat up and finished his shower. 

—————————————————

“Well, kids,” Art called out to the row of Marshals in the office, leaning against the door frame, “we’re getting a new girl.” They’d spent most of the day finishing up on paperwork, since it was the end of the month, and any distraction was welcomed in the middle of the day. 

Tim, Raylan, and Rachel turned to look at their chief, then one by one at each other. Tim and Raylan looked at one another again, making faces at each other that could only be read as ‘ _fair game._ ’ 

He hadn’t told anybody but Rachel about Abby, and told her about her breaking up with him that morning. She just nodded and told him to come over for dinner, and he said he’d see. They both knew he probably wouldn’t come by.

Raylan looked back to Art, “Is this because you think Tim and I need more feminine oversight?” 

“No, she wanted a transfer off of the west coast, and with her qualifications I couldn’t say no, not that I wanted to. She starts Monday.” 

Art glowered at Raylan for a moment before saying, “And the answer is no, you can’t sleep with her. She’s too young for you anyway.” 

“So, Tim can sleep with her?” Raylan tipped his hat to Tim, who rolled his eyes in return. 

“From what I hear she’s too much of a badass to want to be anywhere near either of you, but my answer is this: nobody sleeps with their coworkers. Please, we’ve got trouble-a-plenty without interoffice romantic bullshit from you two.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘she’s a badass?’” Tim asked, a little offended.

  
“What? You thought you got to be the office badass forever? Someone had to come take your crown. But don’t worry, I’ll let you keep your dunce hat.”

“Much obliged, Chief.” He nodded at Art, who had had enough and went back into his office. Tim then turned to look at Raylan and Rachel, “What do you guys think?”

“I think you look good in the dunce hat,” Rachel smiled, standing from her desk and moving between Raylan and Tim’s. “I think some new blood could do us good. Art told me a bit about her earlier. Her name is Helen O’Malley, and she’s got quite the resume.”

“Jesus, that’s an Irish name if I ever heard one,” Tim groaned. He thought Gutterson was bad enough to have in a place like Lexington, but an Irishman in the backwoods? No, thank you, he would stick with German names in these parts. 

“Do tell, Mistress of Information,” Raylan ducked his head in mock subjugation to the junior Marshal. 

“She did some work for the FBI and Homeland, both files are classified and blacked out. I couldn’t get access to any of her file, not her birthdate, or even a picture. But for the last year she’s been working out of the Washington State district. She’s got over fifty arrests there.” 

“Damn,” Tim said, pursing his lips and thinking for a moment. Fifty arrests in one year was a lot, “think she used to be a spook?” 

Rachel shrugged, “Maybe. It would explain it, but it seems like she does good work, otherwise they wouldn’t keep all of her information classified.” 

“Why would a decorated Feeb wanna work for the Marshal’s Service?” Raylan mused, leaning back in his chair and biting his cheek. “Maybe she fucked up somewhere.”  
  
“Or wanted a change of pace from being a constant badass.”

“It _is_ exhausting to be on your game 24/7,” Tim said straight-faced, standing up from his desk and heading for the coffee pot, leaning close to Rachel as he passed, “but I get by just fine.”

Rachel looked back at Raylan, who rolled his eyes at her. She went back to her desk, and they all busied themselves, trying not to think of what a new person would do to the office dynamic.

——————————

Being one of the district snipers meant that Tim was often called away from his desk to assist in various hostage situations, stake-outs, take-downs, etc. He didn’t mind, he liked the solitude it gave him. 

It was a calming experience for him. The three part act of setting up his rifle, settling into a position and waiting, then packing up and going home was something he practiced regularly, and he was the best for a reason. He didn’t usually have to talk to whatever officer or Fed was in charge, not that he ever had much to say when he was stuck with one of them talking his ear off about their own masculine prowess at one job or another. The guys who followed him around when he broke out his rifle were usually pencil pushers, promoted to SSA positions which rarely brought them into the field, and felt the need to attempt to out-alpha Tim and watch his every move. 

He didn’t normally mind. Well, okay, he did mind, but he didn’t usually let it get to him. But when he showed up to a situation in Lower Lexington that day, he was already agitated. Agitated with Abby, at the thought of a new person fucking up the office atmosphere, at Raylan for once again slipping out early and dumping part of his caseload onto Tim. It was all just shaping up to be a shitty, annoying day, when SSA Delano waltzed up to him as he was pulling his rifle from the trunk. 

He was a short, chubby, middle-aged man, balding in the middle and graying at the temples. He always smelled like he bathed in gin, and had the tendency to grin at Tim all the time, though it presented more like a sneer. He just rubbed Tim the wrong way, and Tim did the same to Delano, though Tim did it on purpose.

“Gutterson!” He yelled even though he was right behind Tim, clapping him heavily on the back. He was a good half a foot shorter than Tim, but somehow still managed to talk down to everyone he spoke to. “I was wondering when you were going to show up and find a place to perch.”

Tim only nodded, focusing instead on checking his go-bag for everything he needed. Granola bar, water bottle, large beanie bag, small beanie bag, extra set of clothes, pocket knife, extra ammo, second scope, and a handful of other things he’d found over the years that tended to come in handy.

“You always remind me of a bird, perching up on those rooftops, except unlike Tweedy you don’t ever seem to squawk as much. Your tweeter broken?” He clapped Tim again on the back, harder this time, and Tim kept himself from moving with the impact. 

“Good to see you too, Delano,” he said, still not having looked at the FBI agent. Delano squeezed his shoulder and gave a growl that was just a bit too aggressive to be playful. 

“Well, I’ll let you figure out where you wanna set up. We were talking to this dumbass on suspicion of kidnapping when he shut himself inside. He’s got a hostage with him, the victim he kidnapped. Had her hidden under the floorboards while we were there.”

Tim finally looked up at Delano. He stretched his hand out for the debrief file the agent had in the hand he hadn’t been using to smack Tim with. Delano slapped in down harder than necessary, which Tim didn’t react to, though he could feel his blood pressure rising just from being in the vicinity of the idiot SSA. 

He needed to stay calm, he had a job to do, and losing his temper with a man he was forced to work with often wasn’t going to get him anywhere good. _Civility over momentary satisfaction,_ he told himself, _keep it together, Gutterson._

It was a fairly straight-forward situation. Tim watched from his perch on a rooftop across the street, watching the target rant and rave, dragging around the poor sobbing girl he’d had stuck under the floorboards. She had dirt on her face, her cheeks ruddy from fear. Her hands were tied together with a zip tie in front of her, the muzzle of the gun wedged under her chin as he pulled her around the room.

Tim tried to focus on the man; whether his finger was on the trigger, if the safety was off, if there was reasonable thought that he could shoot the poor girl. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen.

“ _Echo One, I have a clear shot at the target._ ” Tim muttered into the mic in his collar.

“ _Eagle One, take the shot if his hand even twitches near that trigger,_ ” Delano’s stupid voice cracked back into his ear. The Army part of him, the part that was a Sergeant, hated listening to a desk jockey like Delano, but his orders from Art were always clear. 

_Do what you’re told, or at least do what you think is right. No international incidents._

He always listened to Art. He’d yet to have a situation where he thought he needed to ignore Art’s orders.

Tim watched the man through his scope. He couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he watched the man’s face and his trigger finger, feeling himself ease into that place of zoned-in comfort. This was the only thing to see, what was through his scope, nothing else needed to matter. 

“ _Eagle One, take the shot. I’m tired of this shit,”_ Delano growled into his ear after a half hour of watching the two through the scope.

Fucking Delano. The man’s hand hadn’t moved. In fact, he hadn’t moved in at least 45 seconds, instead talking to the girl, stroking her dirt streaked hair with the hand wrapped around her shoulder. 

If Tim took the shot, he’d be killing an “innocent” man. The man deserved prison, but he hadn’t done enough for Tim to feel good about blowing a hole through his skull. If he didn’t do as he was told, Delano would have his skin.

“ _Negatory, Echo One, for the record: the target’s hand has not moved and his finger is not on the trigger.”_

_“Dammit, Gutterson, pull the trigger.”_

Tim ignored him, continuing to watch the man through his scope. 

_“Gutterson, take the shot, that’s an order.”_

Tim kept watching the man. The girl was saying something back to him. He looked at her for a moment, and Tim was ready to blow him away when the man threw the gun to the ground, releasing the girl. 

She ran out the front door, bound hands up, her clothes and hair covered in dirt, face streaked with tears. Tim kept watch on the man as agents stormed the house, pulling his arms behind his back roughly and slamming him to the floor. Only then did he put down his rifle. 

Methodically, Tim took apart his rifle and put it back in the case, trying to slow the steady pulse of anxiety that was growing in his chest. He knew when he stepped back onto the street Delano would start screaming, and Tim would have to stand there and take it without getting mad. 

Sure enough, the yelling began as soon as Tim opened the front door to the apartment building he’d used at his perch.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Gutterson? What?” Delano stepped up to Tim, coming chest to chest with the Ranger. Though, with Delano’s small stature it was more like Delano’s chest to Tim’s stomach. “They don’t teach you at Glynco to listen to a superior officer?”

His face mottled and red, Delano stuck out a finger and poked Tim in the chest as he spoke, “I thought all you pussies were good for was sitting on your ass and playing bounty hunter, but no! You’re also good for sitting, deaf, dumb, and fucking blind instead of doing as you’re told!” 

Tim just stared down at the man, making a point to clench his jaw and curl his shoulders toward Delano, in a silent effort to urge the man to back away from him. He was not in the mood. 

Another sharp poke. Heat began to rise in Tim’s face. Not out of embarrassment, but out of trying to control the rage that was beginning to boil in the pit of his stomach.

“What’s the matter? You forget how to be a good little soldier since you’ve been in Kentucky?” Delano was pushing it, a stupid sneer etched across his fat ugly face as he spit and screamed in Tim’s face. “The Army didn’t teach you how to blow skulls off of Hajis for no reaso-”

Delano didn’t get a chance to finish. Tim had clocked him in the nose, hard. The shorter man crumpled, and the rage that had burst forth retreated just as quickly as it had come. _Fuck,_ he thought. Now he was really in for it. 

Tim bent down and wrapped his hand around Delano’s bicep, pulling him up straight as the agent cradled his nose, which had spurted blood down his shirt and across his face. Tim could feel it on his knuckles, already cooling in the evening air.

“Now you’th fucking done it, Guth’erthon!” Delano spit as soon as he was upright, jerking away from Tim’s grasp on his arm. “Wait til your thuperior geths wind of this!” 

He turned and stomped away from Tim, who was painfully aware of the thirty sets of eyes on him and his bloody knuckles. He took a deep breath, and headed back to his car, tossing the rifle case and go-bag in the trunk. He leaned against the tailgate door, taking a deep breath, savoring the cooling metal against his forehead. Monday was going to be a shitstorm of epic proportions.

—————————-

Tim stopped back at the office before heading home, but Art was already gone. Tim groaned, he’d have to wait until Monday to explain all this shit to him, sitting in a pool of uncomfortable anxiety for two days, followed by an uncomfortable week. 

He could still stop by Rachel’s, talk to her about what happened. She’d make him feel better, but then she’d make him feel worse by asking him how he was doing, and if he’d be okay at home by himself. She meant well, but all it did was gnaw at that mass of guilt that laid permanently in his gut. 

Instead, he headed to a bar close to his house. This way, if he drank himself into a stupor it would be easier to walk home. 

He was there more often than he’d like to admit. The small place, called Joe’s, was tucked between a record shop and a bookstore. Tim would often find himself stopping into the twenty-four hour bookstore after having a drink or two at Joe’s. The shy girl that was always behind the desk watched him nervously, and he always tried to make her laugh, but it never seemed to work. She’d peek at him from behind a book as he browsed, stumbling through the aisles and squinting in an attempt to drunkenly read a synopsis.

She seemed to disapprove of him and his drunken browsing, and all it did was make him try to win her approval more. 

“Cindy,” he smiled at her as he walked in, sober as the day he was born. His right hand throbbed from the forming bruises as he closed the door behind him. 

She stared at him, not saying anything, but seeming a little surprised he was here before midnight. Her blonde hair was piled in a bun at the base of her skull, her sharp cat-eye glasses giving her the stern, pinched look of a middle aged librarian instead of a woman in her twenties.

Tim tipped a hat he wasn’t wearing toward her, waltzing down an aisle where he knew he’d find something he liked. He found one about space goblins and intergalactic war, setting it down on the counter in front of Cindy.

She looked over at the clock on the wall, _8:23,_ then she gave Tim a withering glare, “Starting early tonight, huh?” 

“It’s been that kind of day, Cindy.” 

She nodded, ringing him up. “Well, pace yourself, at least. That’s a good one.” 

“Better than the one I bought last week about sentient cats? That was a bit too erotic for my taste.” He tried, hoping she’d smile.

“Yes,” she replied flatly, her frown set in stone. 

Tim nodded slowly, sliding the book off the counter with one hand. “Nice talk, Cindy.” 

She didn’t say anything as he walked out the door, just followed him with her eyes. Tim wasn’t sure how he felt about Cindy, but he was pretty sure she didn’t like him. One of these days he’d at least get her to laugh.

He turned out of the bookstore and into Joe’s, taking in the familiar smells of the bar. There were a few regulars he recognized, milling about the booths and the pool table. The lights were dim here, but there was a spot in the middle of the bar that had the best light to read under. Usually Tim would bring a book, read and drink until he finished it, then head to the bookstore to buy another one. It was a bad habit, he knew, and probably not healthy for him. He went through five books a week sometimes. 

He took his spot, cracking open the fresh spine and taking a deep breath of the pages. Ben, the bartender, poured him a double bourbon and left him alone, used to Tim’s ass warming that particular stool. Tim placed a twenty on the bar, a silent signal to keep them coming.

He was halfway through his third double and a quarter way through the book when someone sat down on the far side of the stool to his left. Normally he wouldn’t have looked up, but the smell of the woman’s perfume caught his attention.

It wasn’t overly strong, just a wisp of it hit him as she set her clutch down on the bar. It was a dark perfume, overtones of coffee and vanilla, with just a hint of something floral.

She had dark, unruly, curly hair and circular wire-rimmed glasses set on her pixie-ish nose. Under her soft, grey sweater he could see a spider tattoo crawling under her collar bone. Her ears were stretched. Not much, only about a half inch from what Tim could tell. It looked good on her.

“Old Forrester, if you have it,” she smiled at him softly. Ben nodded and pulled the bottle from behind the bar. 

Tim, of course, three drinks in, couldn’t help himself. “Isn’t that an old man’s bourbon?” He was hunched over his book, staring at her as she ordered her drink from Ben. 

She grinned into her bourbon as she took a sip, then turned to face him, “Why do people always say that to me?” 

It took him a moment to answer, struck silent by her face. Under her large glasses, a scar carved itself from the inner corner under her left eye, around her cheek and over her ear, disappearing in her wild curls, only to reappear in two thick ropes from behind her neck, one across her throat and the other down her chest, disappearing under the thin fabric of her sweater. The one on her chest looked surgical, the others looked jagged, like a serrated knife. 

He blinked slowly before responding, “Probably because you look like a college student.” 

“And what, pray tell, makes me look like a college student?” She asked, keeping steady eye contact with him. She was probably waiting for him to ask about the scars. He figured it was similar to the way people asked him about being a Ranger. Everyone wanted the gory details until they heard them and realized the person standing before them had survived things they couldn’t dream of. 

“Probably the gauged ears that went out of fashion half a decade ago, which was around the same time people stopped wearing Chucks.” He pointed down to her Converse-clad feet. She lifted one in response, admiring her scuffed and worn sneakers. 

“Guess I’m a child of the 90’s, always doomed to make poor fashion choices.” She took another sip of her bourbon and twisted her stool toward him. “What are you reading? Can’t be very good if you’re talking to me instead.”

“Maybe it’s just easier to see a real life fantasy girl than to read about one.” Tim winced, it wasn’t his best line. “Sorry, I’ve had a few,” he apologized, picking up the book and showing her the cover. 

She smiled at him anyways, amused. She read the title, “I’ve read that one. I liked it. The second one in the series sucked. Third one was worth how bad the second one was, though.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind when I get to it.” He dog-eared the page and closed the book. 

“You come here to talk books with unsuspecting women?” She asked, leaning against the bar and finishing her bourbon, “Or do you just like the atmosphere?”

Ben came by and poured her another one, which she thanked him for, handing him a ten. A red had started to spread across her cheeks, standing out against her olive skin and dark eyes. It was a challenge, and he was ready to play after the day he’d had.

“Well, usually I just come here to read by myself, but if a woman is kind enough to grace my bed because of it, I do my best to make sure she’s glad she did so.” He smiled, sliding into the seat next to her. She didn’t turn away, just crossed her legs and took another drink. 

“So you live close?” She asked, “Close enough that a book and a few drinks make all the difference.” 

“Right around the corner,” he said quietly, “It’s got a kitchen sink and everything.” 

“Wow, color me impressed.” 

“I’m nothing if not impressive.”

“Good to know,” she said, knocking back the rest of her bourbon and standing from the seat, brushing against Tim as she did. 

For a moment he thought he’d scared her off, but she just motioned toward the door and extended her arm, “Impress me, then, bookworm.” 


End file.
